


The Tasks We're Given

by tylerfucklin (orphan_account)



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: M/M, Supernatural Elements, Urban Fantasy, War, seer!Stiles
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-08-09
Updated: 2012-10-05
Packaged: 2017-11-11 18:43:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,030
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/481662
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/tylerfucklin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You’d think a 600 year old contract would be null and void by the 21st century. Apparently, not according to the Hale pack.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> inspired by[ daunt's art on tumblr](http://tylerfucklin.tumblr.com/post/28958283725)  
> 

“Be brave,” his father urged again, eyes pained. Stiles wanted to tell his dad a hundred different things, from begging him to do something, to promising he would be braver than he'd ever been before. All of those wordsd escaped him when two of Hale's betas finally managed to drag him away. He'd taken too long to say his goodbyes. Stilesswallowed convulsively, wanting to break away from the hands gripping him and run straight back to his father--to Scott and Lydia and everyone else. So what if the Hales protected Beacon Hills, this entire situation was completely fubar.

“I’m sorry, dad,” Stiles croaked, because he was sorry. He was so sorry he couldn’t pass a simple Seer test, couldn’t be normal just like everyone else. It had been so long since a Seer had shown up in Beacon Hills that Stiles’ testing positive had sent everyone into a frenzy. The entire town was all too happy to shove Stiles off onto the Hale pack, because it meant that they didn't have to give up any more children to be turned into pack members as compensation. Stiles barely had time to run home and talk to his father before Alpha Hale’s lackeys were at his home, demanding Stiles come with them. What's worse, is that Stiles was pretty sure he'd gone to school with them years ago.

Stupid fucking elders. You’d think a 600 year old contract would be null and void by the 21st century. Apparently, not according to the Hale pack.

Stiles was shoved into the back of a sleek, black camaro before the betas--a blonde girl and a dark skinned boy--climbed into the front.

"I'm fragile, I bruise like a peach." Stiles whined from the back, turning to stare out the back windshield as the car started up. "Your alpha might not like it if you bring his prize back damaged." The blonde beta snorted and Stiles watched as his father became more and more distant. Stiles felt like he'd barely blinked before there was nothing behind them but forest and empty road.

Stiles turned around, facing forward and wishing he could just jump out of the back door like some sort of Die Hard movie without breaking all of his bones. He crossed his arms, instead, slinking down and bumping his knee against the back of the passenger seat. "You're going to be sorely disappointed, I'll have you know. I don't even have enough foresight to keep from hitting the toilet seat when I go pee at night."

Blonde turned to Buff (Stiles had decided that those would be his nicknames for them) and gave her fellow werewolf a look like they should consider throwing Stiles out of the car. Stiles was totally okay with that. "You know, I prolly don't even have the Sight. I'm just sayin', that test is old. Old as balls."  The entire concept of foresight and sensing the supernatural was something Stiles could barely wrap his head around. He didn't know how they expected him to help with the war, or to even weed out the few humans with the capability of surviving the bite that would turn them into werewolves. He had a vague idea that a Seer was like the perfect lie detector, but if that were the case, then it was highly unlikely that Stiles had any Sight. He still couldn't tell if Lydia was interested in him or not.

It didn't help that very little was known about the alpha. Stiles doubted that Hale would take kindly to a Seer who couldn't See.

Pulling up to the Hale Estate was like arriving at the prison you were about to serve a life’s sentence at. Just looking at it gave Stiles a feeling like a fist had enclosed around his heart, making his chest ache and his lungs burn with the onset of panic. He was going to die - when the alpha found out he couldn't See, he'd kill Stiles without a second thought. Stiles didn't want to die, he didn't want to be here. He wanted to be at home, away from the war and inside the town that was kept safe from harm. He wasn't a fighter, and he wasn't anything but painfully human. There was no way he was going to live through this - and that was enough for Stiles to at least _try_ to give himself a fighting chance.

Stiles barely let the car slow down before he shoved himself out the back door, legs hitting the forest floor and the momentum making his knees buckle involuntarily. He ignored the pain, panic urging him to scramble to his feet and run as far and as fast as he possibly could. If he could find the river that ran south of the estate, he could drop his scent just long enough to put fair distance between himself and those who wanted him for nothing more than an ability he had no idea how to even access. In all honesty, he fared better out there - where the territory was free range for all creatures and Hunters to come and go as they pleased - than in the clutches of the town's alpha.

He’d heard enough horror stories about the last Seer, the girl who had gone through so much pain and terror that she’d burned down the estate and left only a small few survivors, forcing the Hales to adopt omegas and rebuild their pack.

Stiles doubted he’d get the same chance as Kate Argent had.

Barely fifty feet from the car, Stiles had less than a second to register the sound of snarling before he was tackled to the ground. The blonde beta was the one who had stopped him, claws sinking into his skin as he thrashed and shoved at her, trying to break free. If he was going to go down, he was damn well going to fight tooth and nail while falling.

Forced up and on his knees, Stiles caught sight of a pair of boots approaching. He could tell, with the way both betas kept him still with his arms behind his back and their hands pressing down on his shoulders, that this was the Alpha. The true last of the Hales.

A clawed hand gripped to his chin, forcing Stiles’ head up until his eyes locked with a pair the color of blood.

Stiles’ heart froze in his chest, and Derek Hale grinned.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Here's a reference for Dana, Savannah, and Marcus](http://25.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_mbj3krTqSN1rwuvjxo1_1280.jpg)

“What’s his name?” 

Stiles grimaced, trying to pull his face out of Hale’s grasp and getting a claw tapping warningly against his jaw for his efforts.

“Stilinski,” one of the betas, Blondie, supplied. Stiles huffed, shifting his arms because it wasn’t like they were being necessarily gentle with him. If the Hale pack wasn’t the sole reason that Beacon Hills had been saved from destruction of some other pack or clan razing through it, Stiles would have figured all of them to be completely heartless. For werewolves, they weren’t too bad. Stiles knew for a fact that the vampire clan just a hundred miles or so north of Beacon Hills had completely taken over one of the towns and turned it into a practical farm for human blood.

Stiles shuddered, and the alpha pulled his hand back. “Odd name.”

“Can’t say his first name,” chirped Blondie.

“It’s true,” Stiles managed, even though his cheeks were squished by Hale’s fingers, “ _I_ don’t even know how to say it.”

Hale’s right eyebrow shot up high and the corner of his lip twitched.

“You can call me Stiles,” Stiles added, mostly because he didn’t want to be mauled if the alpha decided he didn’t like Stiles’ attitude. Stiles liked to think he was generally good at reading facial expressions, but Hale seemed to have studied videos of the Queen’s Guard for the duration of his childhood. So Stiles assumed the twitch was either the hiding of a smirk, or the hiding of a snarl that really meant he wanted to rip Stiles’ throat out with his teeth.

“Bring him inside,” Hale grunted, gesturing to the house--which Stiles thought looked a lot nicer now that it had been rebuilt. There had been a period in time where the Hale pack had actually occupied various homes in town during the reconstruction, but Dad hadn’t ever explained much of it to Stiles. It seemed pretty taboo.

So Stiles was expecting them to drag him into the house. He wasn’t expecting tall, dark and snarly, aka Buff, to haul him up over one ridiculously huge shoulder. Stiles grunted when said shoulder jabbed into his gut, and grunted out, “Okay, Debo, thanks for the warning.”

“I think he likes you, Boyd,” teased Blondie. Debo--apparently named Boyd--snorted under his breath and carried Stiles into the Hale house. There were betas everywhere, many of whom Stiles had never seen before. They flitted around Boyd, some of them poking and sniffing Stiles like he was some sort of prized game brought in from a jolly good round of hunting.

“He doesn’t look very insightful,” one little beta said, crinkling her nose and sniffing at Stiles, the short wisps of her brown hair tickling Stiles’ forehead. Her childlike curiosity wasn't very much appreciated when she lapped her tongue up his chin like a puppy. No amount of big blue eyes and adorable freckles was going to make up for how totally not okay it was to be licked by a kid.

He jerked his head back, pushing her away. “Hey, personal bubble, girlie,” he snapped, yelping when she nipped his finger.

“Savannah!” Hale’s voice echoed through the room like the crack of a whip, and Savannah, Stiles figured, withdrew with a startled look. “Go get Marcus, tell him to get the gun.”

“Gun?” Stiles echoed with panic, squirming on Boyd’s shoulder as he was hauled up the stairs and Savannah flounced out of sight. “Are you going to take me out back and shoot me? Is a gun really necessary? Why do you even have guns? I’m pretty sure you could kill me with your bare hands! Not that I want you to, I’m just --”

“Shut up.” Hale interrupted, because he was following them just a few steps down and looking like every word out of Stiles’ mouth grated more and more on his nerves.

“You know, don’t I get my last words? I haven’t even tried to use my Sight. I could be very good at Seeing and you wouldn’t know it because you’re going to be killing me. With a gun. Which, also, completely over dramatic.” Stiles flailed his hands around, fingers smacking Hale in the nose on a rogue swing. Hale growled, grabbing Stiles’ hand and crushing his fingers into a tight grip. Boyd stilled on the top step, like he knew that Hale could pull Stiles right off his back and throw him down the stairs with just a single pull.

“I said. _Shut. Up._ ”

“Shutting up,” Stiles squeaked, swallowing heavily when Hale released his hand and allowed Boyd to carry Stiles into one of the many bedrooms upstairs. Stiles’ heart was doing triple-time, and he felt like he was going to throw up at any minute. Then again, that could have been because Boyd’s shoulder was crushing his intestines and stomach. Boyd dropped him on the bed in the guest room, stepping aside so that Hale could take his place.

“Lie down, and take your shirt off.”

“I’m getting a lot of mixed signals here!” Stiles said shrilly, scrambling his way up towards the pillows and swatting at Hale’s hand when it reached for his shirt. “Hey pal! No means no!”

Hale’s lips pursed into a thin line, and he _huffed_ , rolling his eyes and gesturing vaguely. “You need to take your shirt off. We have to give you a protection charm.”

Stiles was only slightly mollified that Hale had somehow found within him the capacity to give at least a vague explanation of what was going on. “What does that have to do with the part where I’m naked and being shot at?”

“Tattoo gun,” Boyd supplied from his lurking corner. That wasn’t reassuring at all, and even less so when another beta came in, an older gentleman who was probably the same age as Dad, with graying black hair that hung halfway in his face, and halfway in a loose ponytail. He had a case in his hands, a case that Stiles was pretty sure had a tattoo gun in it.

“I have an irrational fear of needles,” Stiles blurted as the beta closed in on him.

Alpha Hale, it seemed, could care less.

\----

“This hurts,” Stiles whined, lying prone on the bed and completely unwilling to move at all in the near future. Erica, formerly known as Blondie, smirked and reached out to dab more ointment onto the red and swollen skin around Stiles’ fresh new protection sigil that they’d inked into him.

“Suck it up, big guy.” Erica said with mock sympathy, putting some gauze over top and then patting it--like the she-bitch that she was--so that Stiles hissed and flinched with the sudden spike of pain. “A few days of pain is better than a big nasty demon using you as a meatsuit just so they climb rank to 4. Don’t wanna become an object of war, do ya?”

Erica had a point, as much as Stiles was begrudge to admit it. Demons weren’t exactly something they covered in school, other than the basic techniques and incantations needed to trap and exorcise one. It made sense that using a Seer as a vessel could bring a demon up in rank from Level 3 to Level 4. Seers were like super humans, so it was probably like giving a demon steroids when they got their inky black filth inside one.

Stiles didn’t understand the ranking system as clearly as he should. All he knew was that: 

Level 1 was mindless, like croacatta, wendigo and the occasional kanima. Strength meant nothing if they could be controlled or out-witted. They were the kind that avoided any and all towns protected or controlled by the higher classes, because they were rarely spared if caught. Stiles had never heard of a kanima or a wendigo having a 'change of heart' from their bloodlust, anyway.

A level 2 was the sometimes-deadly nuisance class; usually banshees, goblins, shape shifters, and devas. Stiles didn't think the Hales had any, but sometimes a 2 would leech off of a higher class, doing things like keeping humans in line or generally acting as grunts in case other clans or packs tried to move into the territory.

The most common was level 3. They were dangerous in the way that werewolves, vampires, demons, succubi, and witches could only be. They were also the most common and the most obsessed with territory. Most places nowadays had some kind of level 3 involved, whether they were working with the humans or not was completely up to who it was that had moved in on the territory. More than once, Dad had told Stiles how lucky they were to have gotten the Hale pack over so many other possibilities.

And then... there was level 4, which was what could only be classified as, ‘get the fuck out of dodge because you’re dead if you don‘t‘. Not that Stiles had ever run into a 4, but he was pretty sure he didn‘t want to. Djinn were scary shit, and Stiles never wanted to deal with a crossroads demon, dragon, unseelie, or any of the other big bads. He liked being alive, thank you very much.

“I was marked against my will,” Stiles said indignantly, “I’m _traumatized._ ”

Erica pursed her lips, a sympathetic pout, and tweaked his nose. “I’ll get you some warm milk, will that help?”

“I don’t like you.” Stiles informed her, in case she didn’t know.

Erica laughed and flounced out of the room, leaving nothing in her wake but a few bandages for Stiles to use to change the wrappings on his tattoo in a few hours. Stiles dropped his head back against the pillow, staring up at the ceiling for a moment. His right foot bobbed up and down to a rhythm-less beat and Stiles sighed loudly in aggravation. 

“This sucks.”

Sure, Stiles didn’t really plan on burning the house down or anything like Argent had, but he had absolutely no Sight whatsoever. One way or another, Hale was going to figure it out and he wasn’t going to be happy about it. The most Seeing that Stiles had ever done was probably the time he and Scott had bought hash brownies from the kid down the street. They’d gotten so high, sitting in Scott’s room that night. Stiles didn’t remember much, other than, at one point, being overcome with an unexplainable panic. He’d run out to his car and had peeled out of the driveway without a single explanation to Scott. Less than five minutes later, Scott had started texting him that his mother had come home to grab something to eat and she was currently on a rampage because Scott was 100% unable to hide how high as a kite he was. 

That was the only time Stiles had ever indulged in any type of drug. He was perfectly okay with being sober and not having weird psychic moments that were completely unexplainable. Even so, a bit of THC-induced foresight wasn’t enough to blip on the Seer radar. It didn’t make sense why Stiles would fail the test. All they did was ask him a bunch of random questions, made him go through some stupid obstacle course and then have him draw a bunch of sigils. The test, in Stiles’ opinion, was completely bogus. 

Then again, that didn’t stop Hale from enacting the treaty, apparently.

Stiles’ foot slowly ceased bouncing when he realized there was someone in the room. He lifted his head, staring blankly at Hale’s silhouette and the way the moonlight from the window was creating slats of silver across his chest and face. 

“Can I help you?” Stiles asked dully. Hale took a step closer, and then hesitated.

“How long does it take?”

“Do what?”

“Healing. For humans. How long does it take?” Hale looked a little out of his element, staring at the gauze on Stiles’ chest like bandaging was a foreign concept to him. 

It probably was.

“Uh,” Stiles scrambled to remember if he knew anyone who had gotten a tattoo before. “Probably a couple weeks. Please tell me you know how to take care of a tattoo. I have no idea how. I don't want to get staph or something, please and thank you.”

Hale’s frown deepened and Stiles groaned loudly. 

“That’s what Marcus is for.” Hale said. Marcus, Stiles was pretty sure, was the name of the man who had done the tattoo. He was nicer than Hale, he didn’t try to strangle Stiles into staying still, and had simply informed Stiles that, unless Stiles wanted squiggly lines of ink and blood everywhere, he should probably stay still. Blunt, but effective.

“So you don’t even know how long it takes a human to heal?”

“I don’t deal with humans,” Hale snapped, crossing the room in the beat of a heart. “You’re lucky I can’t turn you without losing your Sight. I can’t stand the smell of you. Humans reek of lies and petty hatred.” 

Stiles recoiled, taken aback by the harshness of Hale’s outburst. He sputtered voicelessly for a second, and Hale turned on the heel of his shoe. “Be ready in the morning. You can rest tonight, but you join the rest of us tomorrow.”

Hale walked out, and Stiles felt surprisingly hollow inside.

\----

Stiles’ least favorite part about living with the pack would probably have to be the ridiculously strict routine. Since the dawn his second day, Stiles got dragged out of bed every morning for a mock hunt. The only downside to being human was that his 'hunting' was really just jogging around and hoping he could find whatever was their ‘prey’ (usually a sock or sometimes candy, if Hale was feeling generous) was before the other wolves. He’d yet to be successful, but at least he got in his exercise. It was probably the only thing keeping him from going insane without his medication.

After breakfast and stretches, Stiles usually got thrown through a whirlwind of classes. Each wolf had something else to teach him. It turned out that half the pack members had been omegas before Hale had taken them in. His pack had grown strong through trust and protection, not through blood or intimidation. Stiles had a feeling it was why Beacon Hills was still standing. There was no greater loyalty than to one who had saved your life in one way or another. 

That didn’t make up for the fact that Hale was a complete dickbag, though.

Isaac, the one who usually helped Stiles to learn about hierarchy among classes and levels, was probably Stiles’ favorite of the betas. He was one of the young ones, turned a few years ago due to the treaty. Every year that they were unable to provide a Seer, a child had to be given to be turned. It kept up relations between the pack and the town. Hale, apparently, had taken all of the kids in with a flourish. Stiles remembered Isaac in high school, awkward, gangly and shy. Now? Now he was confident, kind and softspoken with a whip of humor that sometimes took Stiles by surprise if he wasn’t paying attention. If it weren’t for Isaac, Stiles was sure he’d have gone out of his mind with boredom.

The Hale house was not a house of many human commodities, Stiles had quickly discovered within his first week. There was a single television in the living room, and radios on both porches and the kitchen. Those radios, however, received shoddy signal and mostly played music from a hodge podge collection of CDs. Other than that, the pack mostly had each other, books, and journals to entertain themselves with. When Stiles had asked Hale about his medication, since he couldn't focus enough on any of those things without getting bored, Hale had sneered and told Stiles to run a lap around the house if he was feeling antsy.

Yeah, Hale was Stiles’ least favorite werewolf. 

Stiles was finally on the very last of his patience when Hale presented him with the perfect opportunity one morning during breakfast.

“Stiles.”

Stiles lifted his head, mouth stuffed full of eggs--ones that he had dutifully spent an hour pilfering from the hen houses with Savannah at the crack of dawn that morning--and stared in confusion at Hale. “Hmmhhf?” He was already cranky and it was barely mid-morning. His focus was shot, and he felt like he had enough energy sometimes that he was going to vibrate out of his skin. The lack of things to do around the house wasn’t helping his un-medicated boredom. Stiles blamed Hale for all of the problems in his life.

“I’m going into town. Do you need anything that isn’t on the list?”

Stiles glanced behind himself at the paper clipped to the fridge with various forms of untidy handwriting all over it. He turned back to Hale. 

“My medicine.”

Hale made a face, and Isaac ducked his head into the rim of his orange juice to hide his grin. “You don’t need that.”

Stiles straightened up, scowling. No sir, this was not going to fly any more. If they wanted Stiles to be fully functional, there was going to have to be some sort of compromise. Stiles was completely not down for Hale's entire _existence_ this early in the morning. “Uh, yeah, I do. You can’t just magic away ADD with some laps around the house and making me read books on Djinn all day, dude." Stiles threw his arm out, almost knocking over his milk in his earnest. "It doesn’t help! I kind of want to punch you in the face right now. I kind of want to keep punching you in the face, but I’m pretty sure that’s not going to work. Actually, just the fact that your face is here, in front of me, telling me I don’t need something that I actually _do need_ , is making my fist want to high five your face.”

The more Stiles spoke, the wider Hale’s eyes got until Stiles was pretty sure that his ridiculous eyebrows were going to disappear into his hairline. Stiles didn’t particularly care, because he was cranky and he wanted his medication.

"You don't know anything about humans, you don't know anything about medical conditions, either! I don't care what you _think_ I need, because you're wrong. You want me to See? You want me to be able to magically access these powers I really have no control over? Well taking away the one thing that helps me focus is _really_ not the best way to do it, just so you know." Stiles sneered, shoving a forkful of eggs into his mouth and chewing angrily. Hale took a second to process this, an array of minute twitches dancing across his face as Stiles swallowed, took a drink of his milk, and exhaled to calm himself.

“So. Once again. I need. My medicine.”

Hale’s brows shoot back down and his scowl is back tenfold. “You --”

“I can’t focus without it. You want me to See for you? I can’t do it if I can’t pay attention.” Stiles repeated, because maybe Hale's eyebrows had some kind of force field that blocked common sense from getting to his brain.

Hale’s mouth clicked shut and he sighed in aggravation, nostrils flaring. He stomped past Stiles, wrenching the list from the fridge, and then passing by him again. He stopped, and turned to face both Stiles and Isaac. 

“Scent mark him while I’m gone.”

Hale left, and Isaac sighed grievously. Stiles fiddled with the remainder of his breakfast, and then frowned. He had no idea if that meant Hale was going to get his medication or not, but the more pressing matter was what he'd commanded Isaac to do before leaving. “Please don’t tell me scent marking means you have to pee on me.”

“You’re an idiot,” Isaac huffed, reaching out and swiping his palm all down Stiles’ face, from his forehead to his chin. “That’s scent marking.”

“Oh. That‘s tolerable.”

“Only everywhere.”

“…. That sounds slightly less tolerable.”

“With all of us.”

“You know, I really have a low tolerance for scent marking. I might be allergic to it.” Even as Stiles spoke, Isaac was grabbing his wrist and half-dragging Stiles out of his chair into the living room. Boyd and Savannah were cuddled together on the huge couch and watching something on PBS that seemed to have Savannah's undivided attention.

“Hey Savannah, can you go round everybody up? Derek wants us to make Stiles smell like a wolf.”

“Really?” Savannah cried, jumping off of Boyd’s lap with an excited yip. “Yay!” And then she threw her head back and howled while bolting through the house. It was almost like having a mobile siren, one that drew the remainder of the pack into the living room until they were all crowded around with varied looks of confusion.

“Derek wants us to scent mark him.” 

“Not that I don’t already smell awesome,” Stiles interjected, for good measure. If he planned on saying anything else, it was lost in the swarm of bodies as all seven pack members crowded in on Stiles. 

He felt like the inside of a twinkie, surrounded on all sides. Everyone had a hand on him, and Stiles was pretty sure this was just an all new level of violation in the making. They somehow migrated to the couch, which was a huge L shaped monstrosity, and Stiles was shoved in the center, with hands brushing his face and arms, rubbing his chest and legs and it took all of Stiles’ self control not to just completely freak out and lock himself in his room.

A half hour later of questionable groping later, Hale stepped into the house and jerked his head to the door. “Help Dana bring everything in. Stiles, come here.”

Stiles stood up as the pack abandoned him to retrieve groceries and supplies. Something rattled as it was thrown at him, and Stiles barely had a half second to catch the pill bottle before it hit him in the face.

“Don’t waste them.” Hale barked, as Stiles turned the bottle over to realize that it was the one he’d left at home. Stiles grinned, lifting his head to thank Hale when there was a fist in his shirt and he was being dragged upstairs. 

“I object!” Stiles cried, stumbling over himself, even though he had no idea what he was objecting to. Hale shoved him down the hall towards the master bedroom. Oh god, was Stiles becoming a virgin sacrifice? Not cool.

Hale pushed him through the doorway and Stiles tripped his way to the corner opposite the bed. “This is unnecessary roughness, you know,” he pointed out, watching Hale completely bypass the bed and go for the dresser. “If you’re going to have your dirty way with me, you should know that the change of clothes comes afterwards.” Not that Stiles wanted Hale to have said dirty way, it was just a matter of pointing out facts. No amount of attractive scowling was going to make Stiles be any form of a willing participant in this. Stiles did not find asshole a very attractive attribute, thank you very much.

“Shut up.” Hale approached Stiles, shoving a pile of clothes into his arms. “Put these on.”

“I already have clothes on,” Stiles pointed out, “and they’re mine. These are your clothes, dude. Your clothes do not equal my clothes.”

Hale’s face twitched and he looked halfway to throwing Stiles into a wall just to get him to comply. “We have guests coming.”

“Okay, what does that--”

Suddenly, Hale was up in Stiles’ face, their noses brushing and his breath hot over Stiles’ lips as he snarled out, “Do it. Before I rip your throat out.”

Stiles didn’t particularly feel like arguing with that logic, so he shoved the clothes back at Hale to pull his shirt over his head. No point in being shy, considering how rare privacy was around the pack. Hale grunted his approval at Stiles’ obedience, handing his shirt over--a plain gray Henley--and then doing the same with the jeans when Stiles shucked his own off. Hale’s shirt was loose in the shoulders, the jeans barely hanging off of Stiles’ hips. They may have been the same height, but there was a vast difference between brick shithouse and 147 pounds of sarcasm and dry humor.

There was less than a few seconds for Stiles to really grimace at how close the Henley came to hanging seductively off of his shoulder before Hale was grabbing him and dragging him close.

“Woah, bad touch!” Stiles cried, just as Hale face-planted right into his throat. A shudder wracked through Stiles, skin catching fire when the stubble on Hale’s jaw scraped across his skin. “Hey,” Stiles swatted at Hale’s arm, yelping when a set of teeth dug into the tendon of his neck. “That’s a no-no square! Stop being Chester the molester!”

Hale bit down and Stiles shrieked, writhing and kicking because he was pretty sure there was a giant hickey being sucked into his neck right now. 

“You didn’t even hold my hand, first!” Stiles shouted, mostly because he was completely out of ideas as to how he was supposed to react to this. He was fully prepared to start using his nails to try and draw some blood if Hale decided to foray any further into this kinky business. 

Hale withdrew, nose trailing gently over Stiles’ jaw and his eyes focused on where there was undoubtedly a big red welt on Stiles’ upper throat. The pissy expression on his face looked like it was the world’s greatest burden to mark Stiles’ up, but he seemed satisfied with his work nonetheless. 

“I think we’re having some communication issues, here,” Stiles croaked wearily. Hale’s gaze snapped up to lock on Stiles’ and he frowned.

“You have to look like my mate.”

“Eh-what? Excuse you? Excuse me? What?”

Hale’s eyes dragged down Stiles’ body, frowning like he was forgetting something and couldn’t remember what. It was likely he was forgetting Stiles’ dignity at the door, but none of it mattered when the doorbell rang loud and clear throughout the house. Hale cursed under his breath, turning on his heel and leaving the room.

“Okay…” Stiles said to the empty space. He heard voices downstairs, and headed for the hall when Erica and Dana crowded him back into the room. Dana was a short, stocky beta who was probably around Derek’s age, covered in tattoos with a ginger beard and low-cut hair that was constantly sticking every which way. He didn’t talk to Stiles much, preferring not to have anything to do with humans (aka: Stiles). That, in itself, was enough to confuse Stiles when Dana grabbed him by the shoulder and guided him back into the room.

“Alrighty, kid,” Dana grunted, positioning Stiles in the middle of the room. “Time to get you looking like Derek‘s favorite thing in the world.”

“What?” Stiles sputtered, swatting at Dana’s hand when it came to tug down the front of his shirt to expose Stiles’ collarbone. “I don’t know exactly what’s going on, but I’m pretty sure being some sort of harem boy is not really in my job description.”

Erica pulled something out of Hale‘s closet, approaching Stiles with a grin that was far too sinister for Stiles to feel safe. “Easy, string bean. You just have to look and act the part.” That’s when she brought up the collar she’d apparently gotten from Hale’s closet and Stiles really wished that they’d just killed him back when he’d first tried to run. Stiles didn’t even get a chance to fight because Dana’s hand was firm and commanding on his shoulder, keeping Stiles still while Erica hooked it around his throat. It sat low and loose, leaving the hickey that Hale so rudely had sucked into his neck still free for all to see.

“Can someone please tell me what’s going on?” Stiles asked wearily, just as Isaac slipped into the room looking edgy and nervous. He approached Stiles as Dana and Erica gave him another quick handsy rub-down to scent mark him up like he was some kind of trophy human.

“It’s either they think you’re Derek’s mate, or word gets out we’ve got a Seer. I don’t know about you, but I’m not really up for dealing with a bunch of demons snapping at the bit to use you as a meatsuit.” Isaac grabbed Stiles by the elbow, gently guiding him towards the stairs and lowering his voice the closer they got. The clarity of the situation struck him halfway down the steps when he saw Hale sitting in the dining room, the other chairs occupied by a cluster of pale men and women who looked like they hadn’t seen the sun in days.

Isaac prodded Stiles into walking towards Hale. Stiles had to will himself to obey, because being in a room full of strange vampires really wasn’t on his list of desired experiences to undergo. Every hair on his skin was standing on end, their eyes following his every movement as he approached Hale. Hale grabbed him around the hip, dragging Stiles into his lap and wrapping one thick arm around Stiles’ stomach.

“I’d like you to meet my mate,” Hale said lowly to the clan members. Stiles felt Hale’s claws digging into his hip, not painful, but a warning. That’s when Stiles realized something.

Vampires had no heartbeats for Hale to pick up lies with.

They expected Stiles to use his Sight to find out when they were being lied to.

Except Stiles had _absolutely no idea_ how to do that.


End file.
